Shining Light
by Thief of Black Winged Hearts
Summary: On a day as perfect as this, the only thing he was certain of is that something had to go wrong... death fic, Peter/Olivia if you squint


Wow. I had started this ages ago, back when Fringe was in its first season and I was acctually writing in that catagory. I really liked it, when re-reading it, but it was meant to be a multi-chapter fic. I just capped it off and made it into a oneshot. I hope you enjoy!

I don't own any of the characters, I just retool them to suit my tastes.

* * *

><p><span>Shining Light<span>

The day was bright and cheery; autumn at its zenith. The city of Boston was out on the streets and in the parks, welcoming the sunshine and the beautiful blue sky. The dog walker army was out in force, and the stroller crawlers were out in equal numbers. Every so often a gust of wind would sweep by, throwing the red and orange leaves up high in the air. Children, turning their heads to watch their progress would sometimes chase after the natural confetti with boundless energy. Squirrels, out of the burrows and festooned on the power wires, searched fruitfully for nuts and similar winter provisions. Everything seemed to be perfect, the epitome of a perfect autumn day.

Peter knew something was bound to go wrong. Sitting on the couch in his house, he looked warily around the room, as if unfortunate occurrences were hiding in the corners, waiting to ambush him. Peter of all people knew that perfect days did not mean a lack of trouble; as a matter of fact it usually the opposite. Rubbing a hand over his prickly chin, Peter laughed to himself and thought maybe he could make a law out of it, right up there with Murphy's Law. He would name it the 'Sunshine Law' or something equally stupid. But he knew, just knew that something was bound to go horribly and terribly wrong. Maybe someone was dying right now, and a case was heading its way towards Olivia's phone.

"Son, would you like blue pancakes?" asked Walter tremulously from the kitchen, and sounds of shuffling slippers and banging pots floated into the living room. Peter smiled and huffed out a little exasperated breath.

"Walter you do know that it's two o'clock in the afternoon, right?" Peter languidly asked him, past the point where something little like that would bother him. Living with Walter had taught him several valuable lessons, like don't sweat the small stuff unless you want to go crazy. Peter saved his energy to fight the bigger, important battles, such as sending Olivia into the tank or having him converse with corpses. Of course, he rarely won the big arguments anyway, so Peter sometimes wondered why he bothered fighting for anything anymore.

"Yes, of course I know that!" said Walter matter-of-factly, sticking his head into the living room from the kitchen. With his hair sticking every which way like eiderdown fluff, Walter looked even more the mad scientist than he usually did. He was wearing his usual sweater and vest, with beige pants and loafers. Peter kept trying to make him wear new outfits, but what Walter wore fell under the category of 'small stuff' so eventually he left it alone. "You should know by now that pancakes taste delightful in the afternoon." Peter simply laughed and nodded, causing Walter to beam in delight.

"Oh, wonderful!" he said cheerfully, going back into the kitchen to presumably stir the pancake batter. "Do you want bananas in yours? You used to love banana pancakes when you were a boy."

"I think I'll pass," Peter said, leaning back farther into the couch while he tried to get rid of that faint feeling of unease in the back of his mind. He crossed his arms over his t-shirt and closed his eyes, telling himself firmly that he was probably just imagining things. Letting it all wash over him, he took in the whirs and groans a house this old gave off, the ticking heart of an ever-present presence. The birds called their occasional song, and the cars purred up and down the road. Over all those homey and familiar sounds was the one he was most familiar with; Walter humming gently as he moved clumsily around the kitchen. Opening his eyes, he stayed still, watching the dust motes spiral though the sunlight as they fell on their old afghan, folded over the back of a chair.

Everything just seemed so peaceful. Almost too peaceful, Peter thought as that nagging feeling in the back of his head returned full force. It added a shade of grey in this otherwise bright moment.

Cutting through Peter's almost perfect moment like a knife, his cell phone trilled sharply, making him start. Feeling his shoulders slump, Peter sat up and reached into his jean's pocket. Fishing his phone out, he flipped it open and pressed the on button. This was it. This is where Olivia's voice would come from the other end, telling him to either pack their bags and head to Mississippi or scrounge up Walter for a close-to-home fright fest. Resigning himself to another day of the impossible weird (and often gross), he answered wearily, "Bishop here. What kind of case we looking at, Olivia?"

"Bishop," a man's cool voice said from the other end of the phone. Peter choked a little before replying.

"Sorry Agent Broyles. I was expecting Olivia. What can I help you with?" Peter asked, tilting his head a little. Peter was curious. It was rare that Broyles would contact him directly. Usually he called Olivia, who would then call Peter, who would then call Astrid to help him nag Walter out the door. It was a wonderful system because it _worked_, so subverting that could mean that something really bad or really good was heading his way.

"Bad news, Peter," said Broyles brusquely, and Peter felt like throttling someone in the upper management of the universe. For once, why couldn't he get a piece of _good _news? Peter, noticing something, blinked in surprise. Was that a note of…worry in Broyles voice? That could not bode well. He didn't even think he had ever heard Broyles worried before. Of course, Walter chose this moment to tune in to what was happening in the other room and once again poked his head around the doorframe for the kitchen.

"Is that Olivia, Peter? Do we have another case?" Walter asked him. Peter held up one finger as he instinctively turned away from Walter to answer Broyles.

"What do you mean by that?" Peter asked, walking in a slow circle as he talked, orbiting the couch as Walter looked on, waiting and fidgeting until Peter could answer his question. "Are we talking another apocalypse bad or we're out of the job bad?"

"Peter," Broyles said, and a chill ran down Peter's spine because Broyles had gone past sounding worried, he had sounded _scared. _Peter could almost sense what was coming next, but he didn't want to think about it, didn't want to accept the possibility that he might be right. Of course, Broyles next to words shot that straight to hell, along with any peace or stability that he might have gathered in the last couple years of his life.

"It's Olivia."

Peter froze, stopping all movement in his tracks. Walter too went still, sensing something of importance occurring, and wanting to be tuned in to the situation as much as an ex-mental patient like himself could. Peter felt that chill that had run down his spine settle somewhere near his navel. A cold ball of fear formed there, crawling up to his lungs so he felt like he couldn't breathe. "What?" he breathed, slipping past his lips a barely a breath of air.

"Apparently, she was jogging on West Avenue when a mugging took place. It was two armed assailants against one young girl. Olivia decided to intervene. She was unarmed and outmanned. She took both of them out, but not before one of them managed to shoot her three times in the chest. She's on her way to the hospital now," Broyles explained quickly, and in the background Peter heard the sound of people talking loudly and a siren fading in the distance.

Peter just stood there for a moment, trying to process. Then, in a voice so intense it was scary, he asked, "Which hospital?"

"Boston General," Broyles replied immediately. "I'll meet you there when I tie things up here. You know where it is?"

"Yeah. I'll be there as soon as humanly possible," said Peter in a monotone.

"Don't run anyone over on the way over," said Broyles, and the way he said it made it a totally serious statement. He then hung up the phone, leaving Peter standing there with a dead phone held to his ear. Feeling like he was moving in slow motion, he flipped his phone closed and turned to Walter.

"Get your coat, Walter," he said quietly, and Walter's brow furrowed.

"But the pancakes!" he said, horrified. Peter met his eyes, and hoped fervently Walter couldn't see what he was feeling right now. He stood in front of him, arms slack at his sides and he looked vacantly in Walter's direction.

"It's Olivia, Walter," he said, sounding almost like he wasn't speaking because his lips wouldn't quite work properly. Walter stilled his fidgeting immediately, looking back at him with equal parts disbelieving child and sad adult. Peter worked his throat, knowing he would have to say these words before the full brunt of the situation hit him, but he needed to be sure Walter fully understood. "She's on her way to the hospital," he said, feeling his layers of insulating shock shedding from him like an old raincoat. Suddenly everything was moving normally again, and he raced for his shoes, grabbing the coat off its peg in a jumble of motion. "Come on, Walter!" he yelled, fumbling with his laces. Walter, silent, hastily grabbed his coat and slipped his own shoes. Practically pushing Walter out the door, Peter raced down the front steps and dove for the car. Walter awkwardly slipped into the passage seat, barely managing to close the door behind before Peter gunned it, speeding down the road as fast as he could without getting them both killed.

As Peter was flying over the pavement, he fought to keep himself under control, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and gritting his teeth. He felt like he had to get there, like he had this unbearable urge to be by her in case she needed him. He didn't have that many people he could call friends; he had about two, actually, because Broyles was his boss and Walter was his father. Peter had lost a lot of people over the years. He didn't think he could stand to lose another person who really mattered.

They made it to the hospital in less than five minutes, causing varied amounts of havoc in their wake. The whole time Walter was deathly quiet, looking down at his clasped and trembling hands.

Reaching the hospital, Peter flew out of the car, slamming the door behind him as he raced for the emergency exit. Walter hurried after him at his shambling pace, going as fast as he could. Peter burst through the emergency ward doors, diving for the front desk. The desk clerk, who was looking like she was about to call a stretcher for him, rose from her chair. Peter, grasping the counter with both hands, looked at her fiercely and almost growled, "Olivia Dunham. Just came in, three GSW's to the chest. _Where is she?"_

"She's in trauma room two, but-" she said, but Peter was already running for the emergency room doors, and was through them before she could finish her sentence. "You can't be in there!" she called down the hall after him, but she decided she didn't want to go down there and drag him out. He looked like he might do her bodily harm if she tried. If the doctors wanted to deal with him, then they were more than welcome to. Suddenly the emergency ward doors opened once more, and an old man walked through. He looked at her, eyes shadowed and worried.

"Excuse me, but which way did my son go?" he asked politely, and the nurse blinked before replying.

"He went that way," she pointing to the emergency room doors, and the old man gave her a brief smile.

"Wonderful," he said, before moving off at a surprisingly fast pace. Before she could even open her mouth, he too had pushed his way past the doors and entered the ER. Sighing in defeat she sat back down at her desk, reading her magazine and wondering why she even took this job.

Peter raced down the hall, pushing past medical officials and patients alike, all the while counting room numbers and checking functions. He had been in quite a few ER's before, and knew the basic layout. Trauma rooms were always near the front, but off to the side. Sliding down a hallway, he saw the Trauma Room Two sign and sprinted for it. There was a large glass window and a stream of people coming in and out of the room. Moving quickly to the window, he stopped in front of it, shocked into inactivity by the sight inside. The first thing that registered was a writhing movement of bodies and the bright color of blood. Then, the underlying motion became clear, and he saw the frantic activity was the movement of people trying desperately to save a life. A doctor moved away to check a monitor, and Peter caught a glimpse of Olivia. He drew breath, eyes wide in disbelief.

She was laid out on the table, in a position he had seen many times in his own lab. But now it was Olivia, barely covered in a gown that had been pulled down to reach her chest. Her eyes were closed, barely moving except for the occasional jerking movement when something especially painful occurred. Olivia was covered in blood, and so was the table, the red liquid oozing down onto the floor. A bag of it hung from an IV pole, a rapid transfuser so the blood could reach her system quickly. Two doctors were packing two bullet wounds with gauze, while another dug around in a third with forceps, trying to fish out the last bullet. There were three wounds; one near her left shoulder, one in her lower right lung, and one beneath her left breast, dangerously close to her heart. It was this wound that the doctor was fishing around in, desperately trying to extract the bullet from so they could close the hole in her chest, oozing a copious amount of blood.

Peter leaned in closer, two fists against the glass with his forehead pressed firmly against the glass. His whole back was one solid line of tension, his whole being trained on the action inside the room. He couldn't focus on anything but the glint of blonde hair and the drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the floor. He watched, lips forming frantic words to a god he didn't believe in.

"Please, oh please, don't let her die, please god don't take her from us, please, please, let her live," Peter murmured in one continuous stream of sound, lips almost moving soundlessly. He couldn't breathe; he was so scared he didn't think he could move. He wanted to go to her. Even while she was dying, Peter felt the magnetism of her presence, the need to be near her and to share with her. But there was nothing he could do to change the outcome of this; all he could do was stand out here and watch. It made him angry and frustrated at his inability to control fate.

Peter was so fixated on Olivia that he didn't hear Walter come up behind him. He didn't see the expression that crossed his face, didn't hear the small pained noise Walter made upon the sight of her. Peter didn't see him, unable to stay and look upon this mockery of life, stumble back and stagger away back down the hall.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the doctor with the forceps found the bullet, pulling it out of the wound with a look of triumph on his face. He placed it in a dish, presumably where the other bullets were, and began to pack the wound to stop the bleeding. Peter felt a measure of relief flow through him. Things looked like they were improving. He watched as they began to staunch the bleeding. He watched as the monitor behind her head flat-lined, and Olivia's body went limp. He watched as the doctors burst into motion as they began to perform CPR and inject her with various medicines. Peter watched, helplessly, as his best friend's heart stopped before his very eyes.

Peter's knees buckled, and he leaned against the glass with so much pressure, he thought it just might break. His face was a mask of horror and disbelief. He clasped his hands together, leaning them against his forehead as he prayed so hard he thought his heart might give out.

"Please, please, she's my best friend, please!" he whispered through the unfallen tears that blurred his vision, as he saw an irreplaceable part of his family being worked on by four separate doctors. "She never did anything to deserve this," Peter said forcefully, willing that heart monitor to start again. Then, through the fog of water in his eyes, Peter saw the heart monitor jump, then settle back into a normal rhythm. It felt like he had been born again, watching that heart monitor blip in a steady, strong rhythm. "Atta girl," Peter whispered through the glass, watching Olivia's chest rise and fall. "You did it." And then his legs just could hold him anymore, the relief was so strong, and he slid to the floor. She was alive and breathing. He knew he there was still surgery, and he would need to get up and fill forms and find Walter. But he stayed there on his knees for a moment longer, sending thanks to a god that may or may not exist.

That's how the doctors found him as they wheeled out Olivia, on his knees in front of the observation window. If they were surprised, they didn't show it; after all, in a job like theirs they had probably seen as many weird things as Peter had. Before they could move on, Peter pushed himself to his feet, rising a tad unsteadily as he watched them wheel her to the elevator. One of the doctors, a young man whose name tag read Dr. Wallace Stevens, stayed behind with him and watched them go.

"Is she going to be okay?" Peter asked quietly, not taking his eyes off the bed even when the elevator doors slid shut. His eyes still bore into it like barriers didn't mean anything; like he could still see her just because it was Olivia.

"Yeah, I think so," the doctor said, and all of a sudden everything felt just a little bit brighter.

Peter walked among the occupants of the ER, looking for that familiar stooped, sweater-bound form that he was so used to seeing. But no matter how much he wandered in this ocean of white tiles and anesthesia, he couldn't seem to find Walter. The doctor who had stayed behind, the one named Wallace Stevens, said that they should wait upstairs for Olivia to come out of surgery. However, before he went anywhere he had to first locate Walter. Peter had long since given up the belief his father could be left to his own devices. Knowing his, he was either looking for food or trying to get drugs from the nurses. Actually, there were various things Walter could be doing, and thinking of them all made Peter pick up his pace.

Peter was running off this kind of high, the high of seeing Olivia's heart restart on the monitor and knowing she had a chance to live. She wasn't out of the woods by any means, but he would deal with that when he went upstairs. If he let the fear reach him, it would crush him. So, he kept it at a distance, like he was used to keeping things at a distance, and pushed on one step at a time. Scanning the curtained areas for his father's grey hair, he reached a junction and heard the sounds of a struggle going on from down the hall. Picking up his pace, he jogged down to the corner of the hall, breaking into a flat out sprint when he saw the scene unfold before him.

"Stop! Let me go!" Walter cried, waving his arms frantically as two nurses tried to pin him down.

"Sir, don't worry, we're going to take care of you," the nurse said soothingly as she grappled with the aging man. "Just hold still so we can take you to a room."

"No, I don't want to go!" yelled Walter, thrashing wildly as his eyes widened in panic. Scared and cornered, Walter looked as demented as the nurses probably thought he was. "Stop! Peter! Peter!" Walter cried, sounding like a child who had lost his mother in the grocery store.

"Walter!" Peter called, screeching to a halt in front of him. Seeing that the two of them knew each other, the nurses let Walter go, who stood there looking exceptionally ruffled.

"Peter," Walter said, looking scared. Eyes raking over his father's form in search of injuries, Peter noticed Walter was shaking heavily. Walter looked up at him, eyes watering with tears. "Please don't let them take me back; I don't want to leave you." Walter said beseechingly, and Peter realized what the problem was; Walter must have been reminded of St. Claires when he was being forcibly restrained. Understanding, Peter opened his arms and Walter fell into them, holding onto Peter's jacket as he shook and shook. Peter rubbed soothing circles over his sweater clad back as he glared at the nurses over Walter's shoulder.

"I've got this under control. You can leave now," Peter said abruptly, and the nurses exchanged glances before walking away. Peter knew he had probably been a little rude, but he was having a tough day and anyone who brought this level of fear on Walter would incur his mighty wrath. Peter held his father and simply stood there until his shaking stopped.

"I can't go back," Walter murmured into Peter's sweater, and Peter shushed him.

"I know," Peter said. "It won't happen, I promise." He felt the harsh hospital light sear into the back of his head, reminding him of where he was and why. Pulling away from Walter, he patted him on the shoulder and said, "Come on, Walter. Let's go upstairs and wait for Olivia to come out of surgery." Taking him by the shoulder, Peter guided him down the hall and to the stairs. While they walked up to the surgical ward, Walter asked in a barely audible, "How is Agent Dunham?"

"It looks good, but anything can go wrong on that table," Peter said truthfully, having learned to use the blunt truth with Walter. Lies were usually caught and dissected. Walter looked shaken.

"I see," he murmured, rounding the corner that lead to the waiting room for the surgical ward. Sitting in chairs and pacing the floors were concerned friends and family, waiting for some news of their loved ones. Feeling slightly out of place and shaken, Peter sat down and drew Walter down to the seat next to him. Walter simply sat very still, hands clasped in his lap as he sat with his head bowed low. For once he looked almost sane in his solemn vigil, staring down at his shaking hands and saying nothing. The grey of his fluffy, messy hair seemed like some sort of personal dark cloud, hanging about his person. Peter, unable to bear the level of pain his father was presenting said nothing to him, simply leaning back in his own chair and laying a hand over his eyes.

There was nothing to do but wait. And wait they did, the hours ticking away like a steady, unforgivable heartbeat. Peter sat there with his hand over his eyes, thinking over the time that he had spent with Olivia from beginning to end. The big moments like diffusing a bomb and trying to save her life lay next to the small moments like bringing her a cup of coffee and her being his shoulder to lean on. It seemed like an accurate catalogue. Peter only hoped that these memories of good days weren't the only thing he would have of Olivia Dunham. Peter was reluctant to let the one good thing going in his life go so easily. Thinking of that, he clung to his wish, his fervent hope, and let his eyes drift gently shut.

When he woke, he was bewildered at the scene before him. They were at the house, and everything was as it was. It was just another perfect day, with him just soaking in the golden rays of the sun on the couch while Walter, humming the same three bars of some mindless tune, waltzed through the kitchen, whipping blue pancake batter. Peter felt an overwhelming sense of happiness and relief flow though him, like life had just reached the place where everything was balanced, in tune, as it should be. Filled with this, Peter turned to his left, and saw Olivia lounging beside him, reading the kind of mindless romance novel that had taken him endless amount of time and effort to get her to try, glasses perched precariously on the very tip of her nose. He smiled, feeling as if she had been there all along and he had just been waiting to see her. The dust motes floated through the sun beams, looking like floating planets lost in a sea of light. The golden sunshine lit the irreplaceable woman beside him, lighting her in a glow that felt like a spotlight from heaven, shining on her to illuminate her fierce spirit. With each strand of hair looking a second from catching ablaze, she looked over the top of her book at him, green eyes, normally shadowed, now seemed to stretch down to the depth of a deliriously peaceful soul. She smiled, that little sideways twist of her mouth that made Peter warm from the tips of his hair to his toes. Caught in the moment, all Peter could do was gaze upon her and smile, thinking _thank God._ It had only been a brief, unhappy illusion that had been shattered by his return to the waking world. Olivia tilted her head a little in a silent question, causing her eyes to shine like emerald fire for the briefest of moments.

"You better watch over Walter," she said with a smile that spoke of mischief. "I wouldn't leave him all alone if I were you."

Peter made to speak, wanting to reply, but could not bring the sound to his lips. Stuck in place, he watched as Olivia rose, graceful and lithe as a cat, closing her book without marking the page before setting it gently on the armrest of the couch. Padding across the floor, she placed herself in front of him until she blocked out all the light, leaving only a fiery outline with the barest hint of her real features as the only trace of her form. Still frozen, Peter could do nothing as she leaned forward, the only real thing visible that was not etched in front of him with the brightest of lights being the luminescence of her sparkling gemstone eyes. Olivia, still but a specter of shadow and light to him, leaned down and laid her cheek next to his, brushing her lips gently along it, close enough that he caught the glorious scent of her hair. "Take care of what's important," she whispered, close to his ear. "You have some issues with being haunted your past. Don't let that bring you down again. You deserve all the peace in the world." She pulled back, smiling a smile so brilliant with joy and certainty, so peaceful in its entirety, that he almost couldn't bear to look. And he felt it too, for just the briefest of moments; the same feeling a small child feels when it is tucked lovingly into its bed, safe in the knowledge of the world's protection and love. Carried by this, buoyed by this, he watched in a daze as Olivia turned to walk into a path he couldn't see the end of, just a silhouette burned by heaven's fire. "Always remember, not with pain, but with love," she said gently, before turning and vanishing down paths unknown.

He was woken then, into reality this time, by Walter's hand shaking him awake from where he was slouched, asleep and dreaming, in his hospital waiting room chair. Turning to see his tearstained face, Peter heard his father say his name once, in a horrible, choked, quiet way, so filled with misery it tore at his very soul. Turning away, insulated in his suspended disbelief, his protective layer of shock and denial, he looked up to meet the eyes of the doctor, standing above him with a grim look of exhaustion in his eyes and look of professional regret on his face.

"Mr. Bishop," he said, the tone of his voice a death knell that needed no translating, no furthering. "I regret to inform you that…"

And Peter, knowing the truth, unable to deny that life had cruelly robbed him again of one of those he had loved dearly, threw his face to the ceiling, and howled.

* * *

><p>If you liked this, review! I could use something to cheer me up today. If you <em>really <em>liked it, go check out my other stories! I do some of my best work in the Fringe catagory!


End file.
